This post is part of a series of 31 Day to Cultivating Heart Connections with Your Child as part of the 31 Days of Five Minute Free Writes Challenge.
Kitchens are made for memory making.
From cinnamon rolls on branding morning to peeling potatoes for holiday dinners to soup and sandwich lunches, to chocolate chip cookies with Grandma, to the muffins I burned shortly after we got married, to the enchiladas brought to us when a child was born—many memories originate in the kitchen.
We mommas spend quite a bit of time in the kitchen. In an average week, I make 25 meals and snacks. That’s over 100 a month and around 1300 in a year. So much food. So much time spent in one room of the house.
We mommas also want to make memories with our children.
What better place than the kitchen?
Almost every time I venture into the kitchen at least one of my littles follows me wanting to help. Now help is rather loosely construed and usually amounts to more mess. And it is so easy to focus on the mess and say, “Not this time.” It is so easy to look at the clock and say, “Mommy, needs to hurry. Not this time.”
But when I take a step back and evaluate my answer in light of the big picture. A little flour on the floor isn’t going to matter in 10 years. Being five minutes later getting lunch on the table won’t even be remembered in a week.
What will matter in a week, in a year, in ten years, when the children are all grown and gone is the memories and heart connections we cultivated as we cooked in the kitchen.
When my children move out on their own, I want them to look back on my kitchen as one where memories were made, lessons were learned, and a whole lot of love was given.
So today my posse joined me as I made pies and baked bread.
Do I have flour on the floor? Probably at least a cup.
Did water get dumped out of the sink? Four times.
Did I feel like I was going to lose my mind? A couple of times.
But, in spite of all that, I made memories.
Memories of my daughter wrinkling her nose as she concentrated to measure the flour. Memories of my son making sure I was using the green measuring cup because it’s his favorite color. Memories of my other son eating almost as many apples as I put in the pie. Memories of laughter and flour on noses.
Those memories are what I’ll cherish while I putter around by myself in the kitchen after the children are grown and gone. And truth be told, I’ll probably still spill flour on the floor when I make pies even without their help.
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